


Pride's Fall

by Headwig1010



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Gift Giving, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers, Team Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headwig1010/pseuds/Headwig1010
Summary: Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.Perhaps, but the Inquisitior wasnotSolas'onlyfriend.And they all had a certaingiftfor surprising him...
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	1. Apology

**Author's Note:**

> ***Spoiler Warning***
> 
> Heavy spoilers for Trespasser throughout!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first gift came from Cassandra, perhaps fittingly as she had absolutely _no_ gift for interrogation.

Cassandra had been one of the first officials Solas had met when he reached Haven, her eyes sharp but her heart softer than it should've been; Especially given she was for a religious fanatic slavishly obeying her dead Divine.

She was a forthright, almost dull woman who saw nothing beyond his modest, humble exterior, taking him completely at face value like a fool.

Although her threats to execute him were _highly_ amusing, not that he doubted she'd follow through on the threat if she could; Simply because it would truly epitomize his fall from grace to be executed by the _**Chantry**_.

But no, the Herald, _somehow_ , lived and all was forgotten and they moved on from her petty little threats.

Well, from _his_ end at least.

Cassandra, it seemed, now felt a touch... _guilty_ about her previous posturing and so, resolved to make it up to Solas somehow.

Unfortunately, Cassandra had little in the way of social graces; she was a warrior through and through and so this 'apology', as it were, came in the form the language she knew best.

Violence.

"Solas," she begun one early morning, Solas already awake after a subpar excursion into the fade. "I would...train with you, if you are not currently engaged."

He'd agreed, a little surprised but he was rather intrigued by what she had planned for this 'training session.'

What Cassandra had planned, as it turned out, seemed to involve nothing more then her attempting to breach his barriers and avoid the sharp shatter of his ice magic in response.

Blunt and too the point; much like her.

Later, he would question what had exactly happened during that split second; had she merely gotten lucky or had the rust fused deeper into his bones then he'd first thought?

Regardless, he was hurt; A one-two step, faint then slice, from jaw to nose, the strike turned a fraction too late.

"Solas!" Came her sharp cry, the blade immediately abandoned before cool fingers cupped his bleeding face. "We must get you to a healer!"

And so he was bundled away, despite his protests and sat upon a rickety cot while one of the apostates tended to him with a nervous smile but experienced hands.

Truthfully, it was more farce then healing but Solas, his reputation already fairly cemented, played along as the polite, quiet patient as he was unnecessarily fussed over.

He was released a few hours later, returning to the modest house he'd been assigned to, the snow crunching under his bare feet as he entered, preparing to continue his work researching the rifts.

Only...he found his papers had already been sorted, the report summations for Lelianna already written for him in a blocky, heavy hand and, upon the edge of his desk, sat a book that had not been there before.

Intrigued, he approached and reached out for the tome, examining it's title.

It was a well-worn book of love poetry, its cover thick, embossed leather with the poems within being of translated ancient elven works.

A note had been hastily written and placed underneath the book in the same blocky handwriting and it simply said: Dear Solas, I hope you accept this as my apology for my earlier misstep; In these trying times being closer to home can bring great comfort, I hope this helps you. Yours faithfully, Cassandra Pentagast

Rage flashed through him, hot and sharp, how dare she? How dare she assume? The _gall._

He whirled, preparing to cast the bastardized works of his people into the fire, to _burn_ as they deserved.

But...he hesitated.

The book was _dripping_ with memories, the crinkled edges of heavily-thumbed through pages, the dried teardrops on the pages.

It was more then the mockery he'd originally assumed it to be.

And he didn't have the heart to destroy something so sincerely offered in good faith.

Instead, he gently set the book aside, reassuring himself that he was only keeping it as Cassandra would question if it were to suddenly vanish.

Besides, the translation needed _heavy_ correction.

(And if later, in the fire and terror brought on the wings of the blighted dragon, he took a risky division to save that same book?)

(He thought nothing of it.)


	2. Thoughtfulness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second gift was more unexpected, borne of a different strain of guilt to Cassandra's but it was no less fitting to the personality of its giver...

There was something well understood about bone, it either broke cleanly or it was shattered; depending upon the direction and strength of the force.

There was no in between.

Had they been on solid ground, it'd have been of little consequence that the Red Templar had broken through his barrier, Solas would've simply fade-stepped away.

But on the rolling shale of the Storm Coast he couldn't risk such upon the high cliffs where one false step would've sent him tumbling.

So, his physical attempt to fully dodge her attack partly failed and the glancing blow caught against his jawbone charm, shattering it like glass.

It were as he himself had been struck, the pain acute and beyond the understanding of this shade of life before him.

And Solas took great pleasure in _gutting_ her the next moment with his staff blade.

As the fight died down, he clutched at his chest, the Hearld's latest stray rushing over to check up on him.

The newest member of the Inquisition was a Grey Warden, as surly and as subtle as a bear and as _hairy_ as one as well.

He was a seasoned warrior, with a foul mouth, a fouler taste in beer and the wrinkles of old an guilt around his eyes.

Typical of the usual criminal dregs that made up his grubby, secretive order.

Solas tolerated him with as good a grace as he could muster, at least he was far better his company then that impertinent, _barely_ elven imp or the arrogant, vain First Enchanter.

"Solas." Blackwall panted, over-pronouncing the first syllable as ever, "are you alright? Saw you take a nasty blow back there."

Solas merely demurred, insisting he was fine but he couldn't stop his fingers twitching towards his ruined talisman.

"Ah." Blackwall noted, spotting the movement, sounding rather guilty; They had only been on this blasted cliff because they were hunting for his little cults _damm_ artifacts.

"Sorry about that, it was a fine charm." Resisting the intense urge to roll his eyes at the brutes lack of understanding, Solas merely nodded, reassuring that it could be replaced in time before quickly taking his leave to join the Herald.

That was a lie of course, the charm it was _utterly_ irreplaceable.

He'd awoken alone, cold and so lost after his long slumber, surrounded by the bones of the wolves who had found and guarded him for centuries.

Just one more thing lost to him now...

"Ah, Solas, there you are, I have something for you if you have a moment." Came the gruff, unsophisticated voice a few weeks later, Blackwall standing there smelling faintly of horses and sweat.

Solas smiled politely, turning from his work, expecting something for him to study if he was lucky, or a prank if he was not. "Here," the man said, holding out...

**_Ah_ **

It was a charm.

A wolf's jawbone, cleaned and treated, hung on a soft, leather cord. "I know it's not the same," Blackwall said modestly, as Solas turned the charm over in his elegant hands. "But me and some lads were out hunting and a pack got a little frisky, seemed a shame to let it go to waste."

Quite...

"Never really got all of the elven stuff myself," the man continued, clearly not expecting thanks. "But that doesn't mean I can't learn. I'd like to hear some of your stories sometime Solas, I imagine you've got a lot."

Solas nodded, to taken aback to form much of a response.

"Well, see you around then, come by the tavern later, I'll buy you a drink." Blackwall finished, never one to out stay his welcome. And, with that, he was gone, Solas left holding the crude charm. ...

...No, not crude, not if he was being _completely_ honest with himself.

Blackwall had clearly taken his time, the jaw expertly cleaned, the sharp canines filled down and the leather cord carefully softened.

The man had even been thoughtful enough to bind the bone with wire, strengthening it against any other lucky blow.

Slowly, Solas slipped it around his neck, the familiar weight immediately filling the hole that had been left since the first charms destruction.

Even if it was _utterly_ inferior in every way.

(And, if, he never removed the charm nor sought about creating his own replacement?)

(It did not matter.)


	3. Camaraderie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third gift had been expected, to a certain extent that is. After all, the quick-witted story teller handed out new names as if they were fleeting, meaningless things so why not objects as well?

But Solas could not have predicted that the gift would be given here, in his castle, it's once proud features having succumbed to decay like the rest of this decrepit, broken world.

Haven had never sustainable of course.

It had been an unspoken truth among the older members of the Inquisition, muttered under their breath; too exposed, too poorly defended.

It's fall had been inevitable.

But the Herald, now Inquisitior, had saved everyone they could and lived to tell the tale.

It was a good Skyhold was used to containing such inflated pride.

Solas had quickly claimed the bottom of the rotunda as his own, keeping himself open and accessible so as to be beneath suspicion.

Unfortunately, that left his door wide open for anyone and everyone to wonder in as they pleased.

"So, how's the fade walking going for you Chuckles?" Varric asked, clearly hiding from Cassandra for some petty reason or another, Solas didn't care to ask.

He also didn't care to answer that question, only humming non-committedly, not looking up from his workings.

"Must be difficult, being in the open like this, having the Spymaster right above your head, Curly a mad dash away and the whole hall through that other door." The dwarf continued, musing to himself, "not to mention the Inquisitior running about as if stairs were more of a polite suggestion then a requirement."

That did make him roll his eyes, the Inquisitior's frankly _bizarre_ habit of vaulting from the top of the tower down to his level had been an incredibly unwelcome addition to his life.

Undoubtedly, that little _brat_ Sera had put them up to it.

Still bristling from the reminder of the Inquisitor's _unconventional_ locomotion habits, Solas nearly missed Varric's next words but he didn't miss the glint of firelight reflecting of the gilded box in the Dwarf's hands

"So, I figured you might need this." Varric continued, setting the box down on Solas' desk, opening up the lid for him. "Keep somethings just for you eh?" 

Solas looked up, examining what Varric had just gifted him with an arched eyebrow.

It was a beautiful ancient Dwarven lockbox, the interior lined with plush, red velvet, a brilliant blush of colour against the pale gold exterior.

He thanked Varric, immediately putting his more sensitive workings into the box, taking full advantage of the dwarf's naivety that he had no duplicitous intentions and that he simply appreciated the offered privacy.

"Of course," Varric added once Solas closed the box, the lid locking with a soft click. "You would need to code to unlock it again..."

Solas froze, realizing his mistake _far_ too late. 

Without that code he couldn't get back into box, the clever dwarven locking mechanism ensuring that it couldn't be picked without destroying everything inside.

An ingenious use of a fire rune to tell the truth, one he was _heavily_ resenting right now.

"Luckily for you though, that code is tonight's Grand Prize, I look forward to finally seeing you in the tavern Chuckles." Varric winked before taking his leave rather smartly, clearly pleased with himself for finally having found a way to get the elf to play Wicked Grace with the rest of them. 

"And don't you worry, I'm sure you'll pick the game up nice and quickly, especially with _this_ as an incentive~"

Solas' glare could've _melted_ silverite.

He was going to take great, great pleasure in winning everything off that blasted dwarf tonight, right down to his _underwear._

(And if, even after he'd won the code and changed it, he came back every week to play Wicked Grace?)

(It didn't mean anything. He had no stake in the game. None at all.)


	4. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fourth gift had been something Solas had been fully prepared to forcefully reject.
> 
> Well, as soon as the giver actually plucked up the courage to _test_ him by going so far as to actually give him new garments.
> 
> But he was wrong, not only about the gift but about the courage of the giver...

"Solas! Behind you!"

A belated side-stepped stagger, a stab of ice followed by the violent flash of fire and the despair demon _shattered_ , dissolving back into the rest of the Fade around them.

It was truly an honour to be here, to _feel_ the raw, aching flow of magic through his bones once again; As right and as easy as breathing.

Not that Solas would've chosen _this_ particular area of the Fade had _he_ had a say in matters but Blackwall's little cult rather put pay to that.

_**Fools**_.

Alas, Solas' keen interest was utterly _wasted_ on his fellow, _thankfully_ temporary, Fade-Walkers.

For a start, their parasitic Warden and the broken bird of Hawke were far too busy fighting each other to care about the wonders around them.

The Inquisitior was, perhaps more fairly, hurting both physically and mentally, the burden of the knowledge that you were just been a mistake must have been a deeply unpleasant one.

(Before everything ended, Solas would spare everyone else that knowledge as best he could.)

That left two, the brat Sera who, for reasons utterly alien to Solas, had become a near permanent fixture at the Inquisitior's side and the vain, flashy Dorian who talked of glorious revolution but complained when his hair got _wet_.

Truly, Solas was in _terrible_ company.

"Vishante Kaffas!" Dorian swore, running over to Solas and kneeling down, the elf's blood quickly pooling over his hands as he tried to steam the bleeding.

"Only _you_ would be distracted by a rare whisp while fighting a _demon_. Honestly Solas, you're truly _are_ living up to **_all_** expectations!"

Luckily, Solas only had the strength left for an eye-roll, the full explanation of his actions was _far_ above Dorian.

It certainly _wasn't_ anything as pedestrian as _distraction_...

Regardless, whatever the reason he was bleeding, quite copiously and that was enough to focus everyone's mind, even Sera's who had been sniffling at mere gravestones a moment ago before the Inquisitior called her back onto the path.

(But all of them had stood strong against the Nightmare demon had they not? The Warden with duty, Hawke with sarcasm, Dorian with dry wit, Sera with bristling teeth and he? With what else but _pride_?)

And it was that pride that drove him to seek solitude once they'd escaped the Fade, his injury aching. The hasty elfroot potion he'd downed at the time and the exhausted healing he'd received afterwards far from ideal.

"Ah, there you are," came Dorian's voice from behind Solas, a little breathless after the climb up the steep, winding staircase, "enjoying the view?"

Solas allowed himself an eye-roll before he turned around, his usual look of passive politeness fixed firmly upon his face.

But Dorian wasn't even looking at him.

Instead, the other mage was kneeling on the ground, lighting a small burner then hanging a kettle atop it before pouring in a small pouch of purple leaves into the water.

"Ah, _now_ you are~" Dorian winked when he looked up, meeting Solas' gaze.

That _did_ earn him an eye roll.

Dorian chuckled, "yes, yes, sexless hedge-mage, I understand your aesthetic Solas, don't be embarrassed."

Solas' rather blunt question of what _exactly_ it was Dorian wanted was met with a slight shrug.

"Well, we both know you're in pain but we also both know you're far too stubborn to admit to so I thought I'd cut the moralizing chit-chat down and simply given you these instead."

'These' transpired to be a small box of tea leaves, the heady, heavy fragrance making Solas wrinkle his nose in loathing for the stuff.

"Ah, ah, ah, don't go pulling _that_ face, this is **_not_** the pedestrian tea that the pleblians enjoy. No, these have been _specifically_ brewed for consumption by mages. One of the few things Tevinter got right in the last thousand years."

Ah.

"And the ingredient list," Dorian added, a touch more dryly, handing Solas a sheet of parchment, "before you accuse me of poisoning you."

He smirked before turning back to the kettle and pouring them both a cup.

The warmth was indeed welcome, the tea soothing his aches and leaving him, surprisingly, drowsy.

Dorian drank less of his own cup, unusually quiet, his eyes on the stars for a long time.

"So, that was the Fade," he said eventually, an unreadable note in his voice. "I don't see the appeal myself, especially when you're the only real thing there..."

He shuddered, emptying the last dregs of his tea over the battlements before he turned to Solas.

"Do look after yourself won't you Solas? There's a good chap." Dorian said softly, patting the elf on the shoulder as he passed, making his way over to the stairs before he paused, turning to add slyly.

"After all, we'd _never_ get again a pity discount from every clothing merchant we pass if you weren't there~" Dorian laughed, the young man darting back far quicker down the stairs then he'd ascended them to avoid Solas' retaliatory blast of hail, likely heading back into the very ' _real_ ' arms of the Iron Bull.

Solas scowled...well, _attempted_ to scowl but, truthfully? His heart just wasn't in it, his gaze, instead, turning back to the kettle...

He poured himself another cup.

(And if, in the weeks since Adamant, Solas put in a request to the Skyhold gardens to plant each of the herbs on Dorian's list?)

(It was not for his benefit, he still **_hated_** tea.)


	5. Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fifth gift was as surprising as the last had been, Solas _had_ suspected he'd receive something from the First Enchanter eventually given their diametrically opposing views on nearly everything.
> 
> Perhaps It would either be something openly disparaging, perhaps even a visit from a _Templar_. Or even something as trite as a thinly veiled insult...

It was neither, but the Orlesians were more then making up for that in the last few hours, being the only non-serving elf in the room attracted its fair amount of scorn and ridicule, hidden by the _ridiculous_ flutter of their masks.

Of course, his inclusion in the Inquisitior's retinue was deliberate on his part. 

Originally, the Inquisitior and Josephine had planned to put their most... _respectable_ face forward for the Empress with Vivienne, Varric and Cassandra being brought to the fore.

However, it had been a simple matter to persuade Cassandra to surrender her place in the entourage to him.

(In truth, she'd immediately volunteered, having been fully preparing to bribe Solas with more poetry books if that's what it took. It hadn't... but he'd accepted the books anyway.)

The Inquisitior hadn't been particularly _comfortable_ with introducing him as their mere servant but the poor thing was not the most _delicate_ of creatures and didn't appreciate subtlety.

(Especially after _nearly_ landing on his head the day before after a misjudged jump, Dorian was still laughing about it over Wicked Grace before Solas took all his coin.)

But, he knew what he was doing, he was unseen and acted thusly, making contact with his spies and listening in to those who didn't even regard his presence.

Being called 'knife-ear' didn't matter, not when it would be _his_ knives sliding into those smug ribs, in time.

No, It didn't matter at all...

"Ah there you are Solas, Darling, come, join me for tea." Vivienne 'requested' a few days after their return from the Winter Palace, the offer clearly more of an order.

Rather wanting to get this over with, Solas agreed, joining Vivienne on her balcony, the tea already poured and ready.

"Do take a seat," she smiled, taking her own, "now, Darling, you must accept my deepest apologies for your treatment at the Winter Palace, worry not, _actions_ have been taken against those who _dared_ insult you."

That made Solas pause, cup halfway to his lips, a burst of gratitude threatening to choke him.

He forced himself to take a sip so his only response needed to be a grateful nod.

Vivienne regarded him for a moment, her eyes softer, the recent loss of her Bastien despite her valiant efforts clearly having taken their toll.

"I also have something for you my dear, to make up for your appalling experience." She continued, setting aside her cup and carefully retrieving a long, wrapped box that had been carefully wrapped in paper then tied with ribbon.

Curious, Solas took the gift with a nod and made a show of pulling the ribbon free, knowing full well the anticipation was intrinsic in gift giving between nobles.

He expected robes, a staff perhaps, something suitably impressing and grand that he'd have no choice but to fawn over for her.

How wrong he was.

For, under the exquisite wrapping paper lay an entirely practical, almost plain box, function placed far above form.

Surprised, he carefully undid the latches and opened the lid.

Within lay two neat rows of brilliant pigment, the powder ground extremely fine, their colours rich and full.

Some where incredibly rare, purples extracted only from specific snails, greens that could only be created from fade-touched emeralds and blues laced with the faintest touch of lyrium.

"We need any beauty we can find in such desperate times my dear," Vivienne spoke as Solas took in his gift. "Your paintings bring us all much comfort, I know you'll put these to good use."

Yes.

He certainly would.

(And if, later, a portrait of a _certain_ Orlesian lord was found painted on the wall of Vivienne's private balcony while she was absent with the Inquisitior?)

(Well, he'd never been there.)


	6. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sixth gift was of a different nature to the others, something utterly intangible then the practical things he'd received so far...and all the heavier for it.

The weeks after Halamshiral seemed to bring with it more then mere political reckonings but three deeply personal ones.

The first to endure such was Dorian, a letter having arrived from his father to meet a retainer in Redcliffe which, inevitability, transpired to be a lie.

It it was a deeply unpleasant affair from what Solas could glean of it, involving the cruelest of betrayals and the deepest of regrets.

He left well enough alone, trusting Dorian was in safe hands with the Iron Bull and Varric.

(And if that night he ensured to add extra wards to protect Dorian from despair   
demons while he slept? It was merely a precaution.)

The second was Blackwall or, more accurately, the man formally known as Blackwall who was, in truth, a murderer by the name of Thom Rainer.

Now that was a keener betrayal, striking the Inquisition at its heart, politically it was better to denounce the man and let him hang.

The Inquisitior had him free within the week, pardoned and back at their side.

It was none of Solas' business so he did not attempt to influence the Inquisitor's judgment nor did he confront 'Blackwall' for his lies.

(And if he found his way to the stables a few days later, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and a deck of cards in the other? It was merely to ensure the man was still fit to fight alongside them.)

The third however happened upon a rain soaked hill, everything hinging upon the blow of a horn and the 'death' of one man so the other could live.

Hissrad or the Iron Bull.

But Solas knew exactly the choice the man would make, he'd already made it a hundred times after all, this was simply making it final.

The horn was blown.

The Chargers retreated.

The alliance was lost.

And Bull returned to Skyhold holding Dorian's hand every step of the way.

(And if Solas returned that night to strengthen the barriers outside their now shared bedroom? Well, with both of them in there the-)

"Hey, I thought you were out here," came the faintly amused voice of the Iron Bull, having caught Solas red-handed, the corridor dimly lit in the moonlight.

"Wards huh?" The Iron Bull continued, quietly closing the door behind him so as not to wake Dorian. "Thanks big guy, that's real sweet of you." He said sincerely, "finish up then we'll get you off to bed."

Solas, flustered at being caught, forgot to object to the fact that in no way did he need putting to bed and so merely did as he was told.

Once finished, and as promised, the Iron Bull did walk Solas back to his room, hanging the kettle over the fire so they could both share a cup of hot chocolate.

But Solas sat down the Iron Bull remained standing, instead he circled around to stand behind the elf's back.

It spoke volumes that Solas didn't even _tense._

"Let me look after you tonight big guy," the Iron Bull reassured, reaching out to slowly massage his shoulders, releasing tension Solas wasn't even aware he'd been carrying for who knows how long.

It was tender, it was careful, it was sweet in ways that nearly _choked_ him.

He hadn't been cared for in _so_ long.

"Easy, easy," The Iron Bull soothed, "I got you, you don't have to carry this all by yourself big guy, not with your friends here. You can put it down for tonight."

And for the first time in uncountable years Solas was tucked in bed, three blankets, thinnest on top, just as he liked it.

(And if that night he slept better then he ever remembered?)

(It...it...wasn't...it...wasn't real...it wasn't...)


	7. Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seventh was no gift at all, it was something _far_ worse.

Events were nearing their climax now, Corypheus had been found deep in the Arbor Wilds and Solas almost _smiled_ when he was told.

It seemed the past was nipping as sharply at his heels as everyone elses. 

They were all on the march now, down from Skyhold through the, now peaceful, Exalted plains, South and further South.

The atmosphere was febrile as they camped that night, the Inquisitior having taken a brief division to speak with Keeper Hawen; Informing him of where they were going and asking if any of his clan should like to accompany them.

It was, after all, their heritage.

It was a thoughtful, kind offer from a thoughtful, kind Inquisitior with the full support of their thoughtful, kind friends.

Solas declined joining them.

(The wolf's jawbone talisman was beginning to choke him.)

Instead, he simply slept, escaping into the Fade, twisting it towards his purpose.

There could be no distraction.

There was _no_ other course.

There _couldn't_ be...

(He'd drunk three cups of tea that night, sharing the kettle with the other mages. The healer he'd first met in Haven, their fingers once gentle against his cheek now brushed them against his hand on purpose, twice. Dorian winked over the rim of his cup, Solas just rolled his eyes.)

(But didn't pull away.)

Deeper and deeper he went, his pain crystallizing around him, anchoring him.

The only real thing there.

Until he heard the screams.

He must've cried out himself, his friend's terror escaping his own throat. Varric was there in moments, Bianca ready, soon followed by Blackwall then Sera.

He tried to brush them off but none of them would have it, not until he told the truth.

He didn't even have to ask for their help.

It was simply a given.

They would help.

But it was all for _nothing._

His friend was _gone._

The mages who killed them were dead.

And Solas had to be alone.

(They'd called out to him as his friend dissolved back into dust, the chance to say goodbye the only thing containing his rage from spilling out from the guilty to the innocent. They wanted to help him, comfort him, there was none they could give.)

He'd been a fool, enchanted by a bedtime story because he was scared of waking up.

If anything, he should be thankful of the reminder of his purpose.

For the People... _They_ could not be people.

"But what if they are?" Came a soft voice from behind Solas and the elf closed his eyes, needing this, _dreading_ this.

"What if they're _all_ real?" Cole continued, heavier now, more human then spirit. 

He had dirt under his nails, a plaideweave scarf to protect against the chill, crumbs down his tunic.

Made real.

No.

Torn from his true purpose.

(Made _real_.)

"I can't make you forget," Cole said, voice regretful, "I can't, not now but...but I can still help."

And then Solas was being hugged, the solid, _warm_ weight of Cole pressed against his back.

It didn't feel like helping.

"It doesn't, not always," Cole murmured, still holding tight. "Varric taught me that, he told me to come after you, The Iron Bull has moved your bedroll in with him and Dorian. They want you to come back but only when you're ready...They want to help."

I know.

"They're _real_."

I know.

"Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din."

Elegant words made clumsy in a human mouth, those warm arms only holding him tighter.

It _hurt_.

...

...

...

_I know._

(He returned. He was cared for. They continued South. He was fine.)

(... _Fenedhis_ )


	8. Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was one person left.
> 
> One more gift to give.
> 
> And a chance to be proven wrong one last time...

Perhaps it was fitting it ended where it'd all began.

The gates he'd first walked through, as a mere unassuming apostate, were now the ones he was left defending as the Inquisitior confronted Corypheus alone.

Doom upon all the world.

But... _not_ today.

They'd won.

Corypheus was defeated.

There were cheers, screams, prayers and jubilations in a cacophony of noise and _life_ , countless hand touching him, hugging him, warm and welcoming.

He couldn't stay.

He had to recover his orb.

Perhaps...Perhaps it yet survived, he could still salvage this, he just had to leave, quickly.

Now.

Before...

No.

One foot after the other, up the ruined steps, quiet and unassuming, out of sight, alone, the celebrations growing quieter and quieter.

Now, to his purpose.

But where was it?

"Lost something egg-head?" 

He froze, slowly turning to face her, plaideweave and arrows, standing between him and the shattered orb at her feet.

_Sera._

She was watching him with tear-stained eyes, trembling but her arms were folded, staring him down.

"Sera?" Solas asked, keeping his tone polite and careful. "Come away from that, you don't know what-"

Sera cut him off with scoff, sharp and fleeting, more like a cry. "Yeah, stupid little Sera, doesn't understand magic or the Fade or anything big and important...But I know people and I know what makes people _people_."

Solas froze, ice in his veins. "What are you talking about?"

Sera snorted, having to swallow before she could speak again, her voice catching.

"I saw you you know? Staring at those wolf statues when you thought no one else is looking, all sad, Mister 'village-in-the-North.'

Well, I had some Jennies go look, there's nothing there, just ruins and bones. And you're big, bulky for an elf, like those ancient statues. 

And all those gifts you've gotten, you got a book of elven poetry you've gone and corrected, a wolf jawbone hanging around your neck when _no_ other elf would ever honour _him_. 

You _always_ win at Wicked Grace, reading tells like no one who's lived their life all alone could.

You don't know shit about teas mages have been drinking for hundreds of years but know _exactly_ how to paint on walls a thousand years old in a place, you said, you _only_ saw in the Fade.

Not to mention all your bollocks about the Jennies, turning us into a proper little rebellion, like you'd done it before...

_And_ only _you_ speak perfect Elvish, only Demons, Spirits and Ancient Elves can do that. Most Dalish can't even string a sentence together."

Sera broke off for a moment, having to pause to wipe her eyes. "But I still asked them didn't I? I /asked/ them what your name meant along with all that other stuff I never got to hear..."

She looked him in the eye, "who'd name their kid _Pride?_ " She asked, so afraid but so brave, facing down a God she didn't believe in without the help of the one she did.

She _knew._

He was almost relieved.

"Step aside Sera." He said, fighting to keep his own voice under control.

She didn't move.

" _Spin_ on it Wolfy."

"Or I will _make_ you." He threatened, beginning to shake.

She didn't move.

"Go on then."

"Defend yourself." He ordered, he _begged_.

She didn't move.

"My arrows are only for monsters and demons and noble pricks who punch down. N-not my friends...I won't let you make it easy, I _won't_." 

Time seemed to slow, magic curled about him, it would be simple, it would be quick.

...

...

...

He turned and walked away, tears running down his cheeks.

He made it four steps before he heard her bow being drawn and he froze, closing his eyes, waiting, _resigned._

Sera had the aim of Andruil.

She wouldn't miss.

And she didn't.

"Ah!" He cried, staggering, the arrow having his him in the back of his head but the razor sharp tip had been blunted by _something_.

He whirled as Sera lowered her bow, her expression unreadable as he looked at her with desperate question.

"Why?"

She shrugged, "everyone else gave you a gift didn't they? I figured it was my turn."

"My life is _no_ gift Sera."

She chuckled, sharp and amused, "not _that_ you daft tit, look at the arrow."

Utterly lost, Solas looked down at the arrow, only to find the head had been wrapped in a scarf.

A _red_ scarf.

"I don't like Pride," Sera said as Solas slowly picked up the arrow, his heart aching. "Doesn't suit you, not really, not anymore. Malass armleen ne Halamb."

"Malas amelin ne halam," Solas corrected automatically and Sera stuck out her tongue in response.

"Yeah, whatever Wolfy, now come _on_ , they'll be no cake left at this rate."

Then she skipped past him, tugging on his ear as she went, laughing at his splutter.

And Solas followed her.

(The red scarf tucked securely around his neck.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to Gaysparkler and Ocean for all your help with this little project. 💖


End file.
